Did you know that if you do a random Internet search for “bola-bola”, you come up with Bola Raghvendra Kamath & Sons – World of Cashews? I had no idea. Here I thought bola-bola would bring up a multitude of sites devoted to the great Filipino art of being gossipy and meddlesome. If you look up “tsismis”, you will get various links to Flip tabloids. But bola-bola sounds funnier, and I thought that bola-bola.com would be a lovely place to air out my feelings and observations on other Flips. So I bought the domain name. Yee haw. Look for that to be up in a few days. Nia Peeples’ poor career choices will go uncriticiized no longer! Lou Diamond Phillips, I’m gunning for you!
I’ve decided to reassess my (unimplemented) self-improvement projects, one of which was to refresh my knowledge of Spanish. I’ve decided to forgo that in favor of cataloguing the wardrobes of the hookers that I see in the course of my morning commute. This morning’s hooker, whom I like to call “Yetta”, was wearing a leopard-print mini-skirt ensemble. I could see that she had covered her pimply complexion with a lot of cheap foundation. That, in combination with the overcast light and greenish tone of her dye job did not do much for her overall presentation. I’d give her, on a scale of 1 through 5, a 2.5. She didn’t look like a crack whore, but she wasn’t very far from that. The crack whore that I do see regularly has a tendency to walk around in circles (surprise, surprise) and mutter to herself.
My interest in pimping is purely recreational, though I don’t know if I could ever rule it out as a career choice. After all, I do have a GS Hum degree, and goodness knows anything goes in GS Hum.
I like listening to Michael’s bad date stories because if I can’t have a love life of my own, I can at least live vicariously through him. All of my stories revolve around either my parents, Brearley, or food. Which is not bad, that gives me a lot of good material. But can you really say that any of my stories are juicy? You can’t, and that’s just my problem. One of my life’s ambitions is to write steamy novels a la Jackie Collins, but do I really want the irony of being totally celibate while I achieve that kind of success? Could you imagine the headlines? “Steamy Scribe Has Inflatable Boyfriend — ‘I Call Him ‘Rob’!”
My friend Kathy asked me if I would pick food or sex, if I could always enjoy one and not the other. It’s not like the one I would not pick would be unpleasant, it’s just that I wouldn’t enjoy it like I would the other. I can honestly say that I don’t know what I would pick. I’ve certainly eaten my share of good food. I have not, however, had my fair share of booty. I suspect that I am not alone in this respect, but would I honestly give up a lifetime of good lovin’ for a life-long orgy of gastronomic delight? Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagggggggggggggggghhhhhh.
I honestly don’t know.
The Brearley alumni association hasn’t gotten back to me about the pencils, so I suspect that I will have to steal some when I visit New York in the fall. Many of you New Yorkers have already expressed interest in “hanging out” while I am in town. Thank you, as I wasn’t about to spend all of my vacation sitting at home with my parents. I expect that nightclubbing as an adult will be a great improvement over my nightlife experiences as a teenager.
I’ve decided to make this trip home “The Jasmine Davila Memories of Adolescent Angst Tour and Trip Down Memory Lane” tour. You, too, can join me as I do the following:
1. patrol the halls of the Brearley School in search of the perfect roll
2. cruise the Queens Center mall for the guido of my dreams
3. price cheap silver jewelry on St. Marks’ Place
4. shop for Hello Kitty paraphrenelia in Flushing
5. ogle models and the men who love them at Coffee Shop in Union Square
I can only hope to squeeze in all that activity while my parents shop me around to the sons of their friends. Maybe I should gain an extra 50 pounds, to make the betrothal process that much funnier?
Hmm, we’ll see. We’ll see.